


Hotpot for the Soul

by sidneycarter



Series: Bad Things Happen Bingo Collection [5]
Category: Father Brown (2013)
Genre: ??? - Freeform, BTHB, Fluff, Forgetting to eat, M/M, Pre-Slash, This is kind of
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-14
Updated: 2021-01-14
Packaged: 2021-03-12 05:53:20
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,432
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28755432
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sidneycarter/pseuds/sidneycarter
Summary: Sullivan is in need of a square meal.
Relationships: Sid Carter/Inspector Sullivan
Series: Bad Things Happen Bingo Collection [5]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1829203
Comments: 10
Kudos: 38





	Hotpot for the Soul

**Author's Note:**

  * For [queensantiagoofthe99](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts?recipient=queensantiagoofthe99).



> aaaaaah another bthb fic! im so sorry this took so long :((( thank you to my lovely queensantiagoofthe99 for prompting! 
> 
> i hope you enjoy it, im not particularly happy with this one but i tried my best :(( its also a bit pre-slashy kind of? but i hope that's ok! it also jumps around quite a lot whoopsie ;-; 
> 
> anyway! i hope you like this fic!

The commotion in the church yard starts at about half past seven in the morning. 

Sid cracks an eye open and crushes his face further into his pillow with a groan. 

He can’t pick out anything distinctly alarming about the hubbub outside and so comes to the conclusion that it’s probably nothing. 

He shuts his eyes and tries to drop off back to sleep. 

* * *

No more than an hour later, Sid is grumpily dragging himself from his bed and stomping downstairs. As time has passed the racket outside has only increased in intensity. Any hope of him getting any more shut eye has been shot to pieces. 

When he’s in the caravan, the surrounding fields are, for the most part, _silent_. Sid appreciates that when he wants a good night’s kip. However, he also appreciates a proper bed, hot water and home cooked meals in the colder months, so he’s not too keen on vacating his room in the Presbytery any time soon. 

That doesn’t stop him grumbling though. He could have had a lie in today since he’s been absolved from driving duties. Father Brown, Lady Felicia and Mrs McCarthy are already half-way to London on the train, leaving him a list of jobs to start around the Presbytery and the church to keep him out of trouble. 

Sid’s mood brightens slightly as he trudges into the empty kitchen, finding that Mrs M has left him the day’s meals, including a gorgeous looking fry up, on the hot plate. 

“You beauty,” He murmurs greedily, taking the breakfast out and flicking the kettle on. 

Sid practically inhales his breakfast, and just as he’s starting on his second cup of tea he squints out of the window to see what’s causing all the fuss this morning. 

There are swarms of people in the church yard, more than Sid has ever seen in his life. He pushes up the creaky sash window and leans out. On closer inspection, it looks like the place is littered with… police officers? 

Sid picks out Sergeant Goodfellow, who’s leaning against the church and scrawling in a notebook, and he whistles sharply to catch his attention. 

Goodfellow trundles over to the window with a grin, “Morning, Sid.” 

“Mornin’,” Sid replies, before nodding to the people hurrying about, “What’s going on ‘ere then?”

“They’ve found a body in the graveyard,” Goodfellow says earnestly, shaking his head. 

“Ain’t that where you’re supposed to find bodies?” Sid snorts. 

Goodfellow fixes him with a long-suffering look, but can’t hide a smile. He shakes his head before he clarifies. 

“The thing is, the body isn’t _in_ a grave,” Goodfellow leans forward and lowers his tone, “Listen, I’m not supposed to tell you this but— we think it’s connected to a string of cases recently. It’s been mad, the amount of work we’ve had. Don’t think the Inspector’s slept in weeks.” Goodfellow points over his shoulder. 

Sid looks up to find Inspector Sullivan flitting about the churchyard, scribbling furiously in his notebook and directing officers. 

“I was wondering if Father Brown’s taken an interest at all; we might need all the help we can get,” Goodfellow sighs. “Don’t tell the Inspector I said that, mind you.” 

“Your secret’s safe with me, Sergeant,” Sid winks, “The Father’s off in London today, but I’ll ask him when he gets back. I’ll keep you posted.” 

Inspector Sullivan hollers over to Goodfellow then, waving him back to his work with an irritated frown. 

Goodfellow looks apologetic. 

Sid slaps the window frame and laughs. “I’d best not keep you, Sullivan’ll blow his top. Let me know if you need anything; I’ve got the day off.” 

“Cheers, Sid.” Goodfellow smiles gratefully. He waves over his shoulder as he jogs back towards the church. 

Sid allows himself a few moments to study the scene before him. He finds his eyes getting stuck on the figure of Inspector Sullivan. The Inspector seems a little erratic, appearing worn around the edges. There’s a tired slump to his shoulders and Sid can see his gritted teeth from here. 

Sid frowns before ducking back inside. 

* * *

Sid intends on spending the rest of the day being deliciously lazy. 

Doing absolutely nothing, as it happens, is really rather fun. Or at least it is until a point. 

He starts getting bored by lunch. Most of the tasks he was left by the Father are off limits while the church yard is overrun with bobbies, and the leaky sink and blocked guttering at the Presbytery were half an hour tasks at most. 

Sid supposes the only thing he can do is eat, not that that comes at much effort for him. He resigns himself to plodding into the kitchen to get more of Mrs M’s cooking. 

A few minutes later he even gets a bit of company, as Goodfellow taps on the window and leans against the sill with his sandwiches so they can chat. 

“Any luck?” Sid says round a mouthful of food. He gestures blithely at the scene. 

Goodfellow shakes his head ruefully. “The Inspector’s not giving much away, to be honest. I’m not sure what he’s thinking.” 

They eat in companionable quiet, sharing a pot of tea and watching the going ons around them. They don’t see Sullivan much, and he doesn’t come over to join them for lunch. He doesn’t seem to stop for a break _at all_ , as it happens. He seems far too busy running around, barking out orders and bossing people about. 

Sid wonders if he _ever_ stops. 

When Goodfellow goes back to work, Sid resolves to keep himself occupied by doing the dishes and listening to the wireless. It’s definitely just coincidence that the view from the kitchen window provides him a perfect opportunity to keep an eye on Sullivan’s movements through the churchyard. 

By half past three, Sid retreats into the study to read for a little bit. He glances again out of the window and finds Sullivan still running at a mile a minute, this time waving just a touch too agitatedly at some officers by the church door. 

Sid shakes his head. 

* * *

It’s not until much later in the day that Sid gets a knock on the door. 

He opens it a little blearily - he definitely wasn’t napping in front of the fireplace - to find Inspector Sullivan standing there looking nervous. 

Sullivan holds a key out gingerly and nods to it, “This is the spare key to the church. The Father leant it to us this morning as he left and asked that we bring it back when we were finished.” 

Sid frowns. Sullivan looks exhausted. Really and truly bone tired, with deep bags under his eyes. He looks thinner too, more gaunt, but that might just be a trick of the light and Sid’s imagination. 

“When was the last time you had a square meal?” Sid says in an oddly accusatory tone. 

“I— What?” 

If Mrs McCarthy were here she’d probably scold him for being impolite, but it’s too late to back down now he’s said it. “I said, when was the last time you ate something proper? You’ve been running about that graveyard all day and I ‘aven’t seen you stop once.” 

“I— Have you been watching me?” 

Sid shrugs and leans against the doorframe. “Promised the Father to always keep an eye on what’s going on in the churchyard, ‘specially when he’s not ‘ere.” 

Sullivan’s expression is strange. “Of course,” He mumbles. 

Sid gestures into the Presbytery with a broad sweep of his arm. “Are you coming then?” 

“Carter, what on _Earth_ are you talking about?” 

“Do you want something to eat? Mrs M’s left me a hotpot, I was just going to warm it up.”

“I’m quite alright thank you Cart—“ Sullivan’s stomach rumbles audibly. He clenches his fists.

Sid raises his eyebrows. 

“Oh all right.” Sullivan says grumpily, stamping into the house.

* * *

Sullivan is a delicate eater, Sid notes. All proper table manners, using a knife and fork and no elbows on the table. 

The kitchen is quiet and bathed in a warm orangey glow from the sunset outside. The wireless is crackling away softly in the background, Sullivan’s hat and jacket are slung over the back of a chair, and Sid’s heart unreasonably clenches. 

Sullivan looks hungry. He’s eating all prim and properly, sure, but there’s a look on his face and an urgency to his actions that suggests he’s not had a good hot meal like this in a long while. Mrs M’s stews _are_ delicious, but Sid just knows there’s more to it than that. 

Sid takes a swig out of his mug of tea before broaching the subject. 

“When’s the last time you had a square meal?” 

“You asked me that earlier,” Sullivan says, pausing for a moment as he cuts up a dumpling.

“I did, and you didn’t answer me.” 

Sullivan frowns, like he wasn’t expecting Sid to remember. “It’s been a while, “ He acquiesces. 

“A while? How long’s a while?” 

“A few weeks, a month maybe, I can’t quite—“ He’s trying to sound blasé. 

“A _month?_ What the _hell_ have you lived on?” Sid sounds aghast.

Sullivan sips his own tea self-consciously. He can’t quite make eye contact. “Toast for breakfast, sandwiches for lunch, that sort of thing.”

“So _bread_? You’ve lived on bread.” 

“Well when you put it like that it does sound rather—“ 

“It sounds like my worst bleedin’ nightmare, that’s what.” Sid spears a large piece of carrot with his fork and shoves it into his mouth. 

Sullivan grimaces. 

“I haven’t really had time to be cooking, Carter, I’ve been _busy_ ,” Sullivan grits his teeth. “Plus, the cooker and the hot water have been out of service at the cottage for a while now and I—“ 

“You what?” Sid garbles around a mouthful of food, “You’ve ‘ad no cooker or hot water?” 

Sullivan shakes his head. “No, I haven’t.” His hands are clenched tightly over his cutlery, like this is a sore subject somehow. 

Sid notices this and tries a more gentle approach. “You shoulda said somethin’, you know. Mrs M will cook for anyone who’s hungry, and the Father’s door is always open if you need a warm bed at night. Your heating been out as well, I suppose?” 

Sullivan nods and Sid winces. It’s not the dead of winter quite yet, but the leaves are already turning and there’s a definite autumnal chill in the air. 

Sullivan looks a little mournful as he studies his nearly empty plate. 

“There’s plenty more, you know, and Mrs M’ll be mad if there’s any gone to waste,” Sid hums, pointing over his shoulder with his knife. “Think there’s some treacle tart in the fridge, too.” 

“W-Would you mind?“ 

“What, if you ‘ave more? Course not,” Sid says, frowning, “Pass us your plate.” 

Sid piles it high for him and hands the plate back, concern growing as Sullivan begins wolfing it down again, a little more carelessly this time. 

They drop back into silence, with Sid occasionally throwing glances at Sullivan to check he’s ok. Sullivan’s eyes stay firmly on his plate. 

Sullivan is still scoffing his food down when Sid finishes his own meal, and so Sid busies himself round the kitchen, tidying up and washing dishes. Normally he wouldn’t bother, but something about Sullivan’s presence instills a need to keep things pristine. Mrs M will be delighted, at least. 

He’s just filling the kettle for another cup of tea when Sullivan leans back with a contented sigh. 

“You finished now?” Sid laughs, eyeing Sullivan’s empty plate in awe and amusement. 

Sullivan looks sheepish. “You mentioned… treacle tart?” 

“I did,” Sid checks on the slowly bubbling kettle before turning to the fridge. “You staying for The Archers?” 

“The— _You_ listen to The Archers?” 

“‘Course I do; The Father loves it,” Sid checks his watch and fills up the teapot. “It’ll be on in about five minutes. The wireless in the snug’s the best, if you want to sit in there.” 

Sullivan feels warmth spreading across his chest. “That sounds nice.” 

* * *

Father Brown arrives home late that evening. He heads straight for the kitchen - nothing like a nice steaming mug of coca before bed - but his curiosity is piqued by the light still glowing from underneath the door of the snug. 

The Father pushes the door open and smiles. 

Sid and the Inspector are sitting closely on the plush sofa, the fire burning to embers in the grill. The wireless is still crackling away in the background, and they’re talking lowly to each other about something in the newspaper. 

They haven’t noticed him enter, so he coughs lightly to alert them to his presence. 

Sullivan tenses up almost immediately, craning away from Sid’s arm. “Father, I—“ 

“Good evening, Inspector,” Father Brown says soothingly, “What a pleasant surprise.” 

Sullivan glances across at Sid as if expecting a telling off for being here too late. He’s confused as he finds that Sid doesn’t seem in the slightest bit concerned at the Father’s entrance. It’s not as if they’re doing anything… suspicious of course, but still. 

“How was London?” Sid asks, folding up the paper. 

“Busy, but rather a lot of fun.” Father Brown smiles. 

“You didn’t let Lady F loose in Selfridges did you?” 

“Ah,” Father Brown grimaces, “I may have made that mistake.” 

Sid whistles, “Rookie error, Father.” 

“I’m just glad it’s Monty’s wallet that’s taking the hit,” Father Brown grins with rather uncharitable glee. 

“Too right,” Sid snorts. 

“I was just about to have some hot chocolate,” Father Brown changes the subject deftly. “Would you both like some?” 

“Ah, yes please Father,” Sid stretches with a grunt. 

“I— I don’t wish to intrude I should—“ 

“Intrude? You’re not intruding at all, Inspector,” The Father says, looking genuinely surprised. “You’re most welcome to stay for hot chocolate!”

Sid turns up the volume on the wireless. “‘Ey, and it’s nearly time for Book at Bedtime! You can’t miss that.” 

Sullivan wrings his hands and almost blushes. He can’t believe Carter is about to convince him to laze around listening to more radio programmes. 

Having said that, this sofa is awfully comfy. 

And it’s true, he has been listening to the Book at Bedtime this week. 

Plus, the weather is probably bitterly cold outside, and the warmth from the fire and Sid beside him is much more tolerable. 

Sullivan gnaws the inside of his cheek. It can’t hurt, can it? 

“Then yes please, Father. A hot chocolate would be lovely.” 

Sullivan will be damned if he doesn’t feel his cheeks tugging upwards when he sees how broadly Sid grins. 

**Author's Note:**

> what happened in between them listening to the archers and father brown coming home is up to you wink wonk 
> 
> jk tho i wanted to write more but i didnt want to make it drag on with it being kinda pre relationship 
> 
> anyway thank you so much for reading, i really hope you enjoyed!!! as ever, pls excuse spelling and grammar


End file.
